


Hit Me With Your Best Shot

by forestofbabel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Human, Assassination, Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Sterek Reverse Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 22:52:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15399294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofbabel/pseuds/forestofbabel
Summary: Five times Stiles and Derek crossed paths on the job, and one time they weren't working“You’re going to have to ask him for help.”“I’m not asking him for help, Lydia,” Stiles sneered, trying valiantly to not look as she cleaned out the gash running across his bicep.  “We’re mortal enemies.  I refuse.”Lydia sighed and pressed the cotton ball unnecessarily hard where a bullet had grazed him.   “You’re not enemies, Stiles.  You’re the only one who thinks that.”Stiles threw his good arm up in the air.  “He tried to blow me up!”





	1. Barcelona

**Author's Note:**

  * For [froggydarren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/froggydarren/gifts).



> Written for the Sterek Reversebang 2018, work inspired by art from [froggydarren](http://froggydarren.tumblr.com)

**I Barcelona**

Growing up, Stiles stood out like a sore thumb.  He was a bit wild with his arms when he talked. He couldn’t seem to shut up in class.  He had a tendency to trip over nothing and fall straight on his ass. It was a talent, really.  

Lydia was the one who taught him how to use it to his advantage if they were really going to do this thing.  Five years later and Stiles was slipping into a cafe, tripping over the entrance and apologizing profusely in terrible Spanish to the waitress he almost crashed into.  The picture he painted was a dumb college kid, vacationing or taking a semester abroad. Locals would see at least ten people like him a day. Visitors would just see another tourist like them.  Nothing odd, nothing suspicious.

No one would pick skinny, defenseless, baby-faced Stiles out of a crowd when chasing down the gunman who took out the visiting British diplomat.

Not that anyone was chasing Stiles.  He was good at this. People wouldn’t be finding the body of Minister Deucalion for at least another twenty minutes.

That gave him more than enough time to -

Stiles bumped into another patron at the cafe.  Perfect. “Lo siento,” Stiles said, turning around.  He came face to face with a stranger who took Stiles’s breath away.  If Stiles had a type it could be summed up as the man before him. Eyes that contained a whole forest of color, artful stubble, a strong jaw and high cheekbones.  Stiles’s eyes lingered on the man’s soft pink lips and wondered if the man was into college age guys. Not the time, Stiles cursed at himself. In his worst American accent, Stiles ask “Habla ingles?”

The man looked Stiles up and down, unimpressed by Stiles’s whole demeanor.  “Yeah.”

Stiles heaved a sigh of fake relief, keeping with the character.  “Awesome. Uh, I’m totally lost, but if you can give me directions I’ll buy you a coffee or something,” Stiles said pointing to the menu.  “Also, as like, an apology for running into you like that. I’m a mess today.”

The guy was completely unimpressed, but still checked his watch and looked up at the cafe menu.  “Yeah, sure.”

“Thanks, dude!” Stiles cheered, holding his hand out.  “Michael.”

The man seemed a bit apprehensive, but Stiles would win him over yet.  “Don’t call me dude.”

Stiles smirked and nodded to an empty table.  “Well, you’ll just have to give me your name then.”  His line earned almost a smile, maybe a smirk. Stiles would call it a win.  

Somehow, conversation came easily after that.  Derek was a grad student studying Spanish literature.  Stiles was on a two week school photography trip, explaining away his fancy backpack.  Derek ordered for them since he was fluent. Stiles was, too, but it was more fun to pretend otherwise.  It was so easy to talk to Derek, trading favorite sights and spots to eat, somehow stumbling into a conversation about eighties slasher flicks and how terrible the special effects were.  Stiles almost forgot why he was hiding out in a cafe until the television on the back wall had a breaking update that caught Derek’s eye.

“What’s it saying?” Stiles asked, following the news story.

“Looks like we’re just a couple blocks away from an assassination,” Derek said, a bit of feared awe in his voice.  

Stiles frowned.  “Creepy.” He turned back to Derek and looked at their long empty coffee mugs.  “You want to get away from here? You can, uh, help me find my way back to my hotel?”

Derek smirked.  “Yeah, but I have to go after that.”

Well, drat.  It was so hard to meet people in his line of work.  Derek was a beautiful pipe dream anyway. Stiles would have to take some time off and go to a club after this.  They passed their way through a police checkpoint together, showing off student IDs and passports with Derek doing the talking for him.

“Sorry your trip to Spain had to get caught up in a, uh, yeah I don’t even know what to call it.  Political scandal seems too light,” Derek frowned, eyes tracking the armoured police who were making their way around the city.  “Terrorist attack seems too big.”

“Yeah, my group might go home early because of it,” Stiles said, checking his phone.  Lydia’s messages were coded and from a number that couldn’t be tracked, but she was expecting him back by now.  “Thanks for walking me home. That police spot would have been scary without someone who could speak Spanish for me.”

Derek smirked and ducked his head.  They slowed down, reaching their destination.  “It was nice meeting you, Michael.”

Stiles smiled, a little strained, a little fake, at the sound of the name he gave Derek.  “You too.”

“Maybe try knocking into less people in the future.  I could have been someone who didn’t take that too kindly.”  Derek’s eyes, rich with blues and greens and golds, seemed to be memorizing his face.  It seemed foolish to hope, or even to want. It didn’t matter that they could have easy conversation.  Half of it was lies. But dear lord was Derek attractive.

“I’m destined to crash into someone,” Stiles laughed.  “I’m glad it was you.”

Derek looked down at his watch, a beautifully crafted piece that screamed Derek came from money and also cared enough to wear a watch in the day and age of cell phones.  “I’ve got to go.”

“Yeah.”  They both stood there for another moment.  “Maybe I’ll crash into you again sometime.”  The world was big and Stiles never stayed in the same place long.  The chances of them ever meeting again were in the negatives, but he could pretend.  

“Maybe.”

It was rare that Stiles wished he weren’t in this line of work, that he could actually be the college kid on a school photography trip to Spain.  He wished he could visit all the places Derek had suggested with him. He wished he could be the plucky undergrad who flirted too hard with a grad student.  He wished he could meet someone for more than a day or a night or a few hours. But they parted ways and Stiles went inside and Lydia was waiting for him with their bags and new IDs and he had another job to go to.  The moment of _what-if_ was nice, but it wasn’t real.  

Nothing about Michael was real.


	2. Bangkok

**II Bangkok**

It wasn’t often that Kate Argent reared her ugly head.  She had been a prolific member of the French Parliament, known best for her ultra conservative stances.  She had been against France taking in refugees and stirred up a lot of hate speech against foreigners. Then it came to light her involvement in what amounted to a genocide of many people in a neighboring country and Kate had been living a life underground ever since.  She popped up from time to time, having moved from a political sphere to the lead of a darknet ring of criminals.

Lydia had been tracking the string of darknet chatter for a long time.  And now they had her. She was sitting high and mighty in a penthouse suite at the hotel which hosted the largest underground (and highly illegal) casino in Bangkok.  There was a trade she was there to make. Stiles didn't know what. He didn’t care. All that mattered was getting the shot.

Stiles was set up a klick and half away.  He’d been camped out for over ten hours, waiting.  His eyes were focused through his scope. His world was just a few square feet of a luxury hotel room.  His finger would move for nothing more than the face of his mark.

When Kate finally came into the room, he only had to wait for her to step into line of his rifle.  He caught a flick of her hair, a golden curl drifting past curtain. He moved his finger onto the trigger.

Then something happened.

Stiles took back his finger.

There was someone else in that room.  A struggle. Kate may have been a former politician but she had been trained to fight by someone.  Stiles couldn’t shoot if there was someone else in the room. Or, he could, but he wouldn’t. The longer it took for someone’s body to be discovered, the better off Stiles was.  Stiles watched as Kate fought off her assailant, only to be quickly overpowered.

Stiles was kind of angry that someone was taking his kill.  Angry enough he was tempted to shoot the other assassin. The part of him focused on his task moved his finger back onto the trigger.  Kate wasn’t dead yet and if this new guy couldn’t -

The gun in his hand almost slipped.  

Stiles knew that face.

There were a few things you needed to be good at in his line of work.  Killing didn’t cut it. Anyone pushed far enough could be a killer. To be a contract killer, to be good at it and never get caught, required finesse and smarts.  You had to make snap judgements off minimal information. You needed to read a scene, know what was going on around you at all times, be a con-man and a spy. You needed to remember faces even if you only passed them on the street because if you saw them again the next day there was a chance they were tailing you.

Stiles knew that face.

The stubble had grown out and helped hide his strong jaw, and his hair was longer and flat with lack of product in it, but there was no mistaking.  The man got his hands around Kate’s head. In a swift motion, he snapped her neck. From this distance Stiles couldn’t make out the iridescent color of Derek’s eyes, but they still gleamed with a blank murderous intent.

The man Stiles had met in Barcelona two years back had just taken down Kate Argent with his bare hands.  And it was personal.

Stiles packed up his gun and contacted Lydia.  He needed out of there and he needed to know who the hell that man actually was.


	3. Baghdad

**III Baghdad**

Derek had been tracking a ghost.  

It was a dangerous business model to take down other killers, but it was the one stipulation to any contract he took.  An _eye for an eye_ clause.  Not everyone was willing to risk going after individuals with the means to fight back, so it didn’t hurt his work flow.  And despite all of Derek’s close calls, he always managed to win in the end.

His specialty was hunting down criminals who had gone underground.  Off the map, no paper trail, in hiding, on the run. Derek would sniff them out and then snuff them out.  

This latest job was testing his limits.  He supposed there was a good reason for the other assassin to be called _The Void_.

When Cora slapped down the file, Derek had frowned a the single page.  It was normally much larger.

“I don’t like this one, Der,” she had said.  

“The pay’s good though,” he said, and he hadn’t been doing quite as much since Kate.  They needed the money.

Derek had heard of the hitman before, the one people claimed left no trace except a body for someone to find.  Never a single witness, and not because he killed them. There just never was any.

“What’s his name?” Derek asked, looking at the file.  It mostly contained information on the man hiring them.

“Stiles.”

“His _real_ name,” Derek rolled his eyes.

Cora was silent long enough to draw his attention  She was serious. “Stiles is the only name I could find.”

Derek didn’t know what dumb nickname was associated with him, and he didn’t care, but if all someone had to go by was that nickname he was sure that despite Cora’s best efforts people could still find more than one alias Derek went by.  Derek Hale was dead and buried, but the names he was hired under, the names he worked under, someone out there could piece it together somehow.

For Cora to only come back with _Stiles_ made the rumors even more fitting.  Stiles was a void. It wasn’t that he was dead.  He simply didn’t exist.

Derek’s benefactor was sending them a monthly stipend as they poured their efforts into finding this Stiles character, but the big payout wouldn’t come until the kill was confirmed.  Worse, Mr. Daehler was growing impatient. It was an odd request, only in the fact that Daehler was known for the hitman he had on staff. There was a trademark to those kills. A paralytic that Daehler’s man used to incapacitate before finishing the job however he saw fit that evening.  

Apparently Stiles took out Daehler’s guy.  Sans a hitman he could trust, Derek was contacted.  The hitman of hitmen.

Well, he wasn’t the only one.

A break in the case finally reared its ugly head when Cora was able to do whatever magic it was she could work with computers.  She couldn’t find where Stiles was camped out, but she did manage to discover who their newest target was.

Derek cursed and called in the one expert he knew.

If his hit was going after the Desert Wolf, Braeden would want in on it.

Cora gave him a bland look of immense disapproval.  There were a few rules they tried to set for themselves.  Don’t sleep with _anyone_ when you’re on the job, no matter how tempting.  The second is don’t bring anything personal into the workplace.

The first rule was put in place when Derek slept with a woman named Jennifer who was actually a woman named Julia… who was actually the person he had been sent to kill.

Derek broke the rule with Braden because he’d taken a few slugs to the stomach and thought he was going to die and figured he might as well end on a high note.  

He did not die.

Unfortunate, really, because explaining why he had been out of contact with his sister after she heard him get shot was probably more painful than getting shot.

He almost broke rule one once before with some doe eyed twink on a mission in Spain, but if Derek missed the drop because he was getting laid Cora would actually redispurse all their money and retire without him.   

The second rule was put in place after Derek killed Kate.

Nothing personal, not ever again.  

They never talked about the explosion that killed most their family, that drove them to the life they now lived, that had them leaving their old identities to die in the fire that Kate Argent caused.  If they had, maybe Cora wouldn’t have let Derek go after Kate at all.

Of all the times Derek has killed, that was the first time he felt like a killer.  Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. Deranged. Derek came home from that and couldn’t remember the following two whole months.  

So, nothing personal.  They made a promise that if one of them were in danger they would employ someone else.  

Derek calling the mercenary he fucked to help on a current case was definitely bringing something personal to the table.  Cora was pissed.

“It’s temporary,” he reminded her again and again.  Besides, in the end there was nothing between him and Braeden.  It was a heated moment rather than genuine attraction.

Braeden was a great help.  She already knew where the Desert Wolf a.k.a. Corinne was wreaking havoc.  Iraq was hot and sandy.  Even far away from the war zones, they had to be careful where they went, fake press badges the only thing from keeping them out of scrutiny.  

Derek had no idea if his true mark could blend in on the streets or would pop out as a foreigner.  Corinne they at least had a photo of.

“She’s making a trade off outside of the city,” Braeden confirmed.  “If we set up before their meeting time, we can scout it. Search for a sniper.”

“We can’t rule out that she’s trading with Stiles,” Derek said.  It could be a set up to draw her out and kill her where there were no witnesses.  

Braeden knew what his comment meant.  “This kill is mine, Derek. I’m not letting him attempt just so we can ID your hit.”

“We lose everything if you shoot before we know,” he warned her.

“No.  I win a kill.  You lose everything.”

Cora’s dry and very unamused laugh crackled through his earpiece.  “That’s why we don’t work with others, Der.”

The thing about being a hitman was that the circle of people you could trust was one.  And maybe even then. Derek trusted Cora, but it’s not unheard of for someone to have their own tech expert turn on them.  It was best if you could be your own tech.

If someone was willing to pay big bucks for murder, then they’re probably not someone you should be trusting.  Derek and Cora never looked into the reasons why a benefactor wanted someone dead, only if that hit was someone they thought was worth killing.  

If someone was willing to accept big bucks to commit murder, it didn’t matter that you shared that particular personality trait.  They weren’t someone you should be trusting. You had to be careful.

This was the business of betrayal.  

Derek looked at the scars on Braeden’s neck.  Someone had gotten close to killing her once. He wondered if it was because she had trusted the wrong person, too.  He’d never know. They’d never get that close. This was testament to that.

“I will stop you here if I have to,” Derek said.  “If we can’t find him waiting to take a shot, and he’s among the caravan, we’ll never get this guy if you take out Corinne before he has a chance to move.”

“Who gives a shit?” Braeden shot back.  “Why do you care so much about this job?”

Derek didn’t have an answer for that.  He took his work seriously. He was skilled and he did his job well.  He tackled every case with the same diligence. Maybe it was a matter of pride that he took out someone others treated like a ghost story.  Maybe he just didn’t want to deal with Daehler beyond getting paid one last time. Maybe it was spite at Cora for telling him this whole case was a bad idea.  It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to forfeit this just because she wanted her own mark.

“What are you going to do after you get her?” he asked instead.

With Kate gone, Derek had lost his sense of purpose for too long.  It’s how he ended up with a couple of bullet holes and sleeping with a mercenary because he had made sloppy rookie mistakes going back into the field.

Braeden frowned.  Then shrugged.  Then smirked, a self-deprecating look behind her eye.  “Maybe I’ll become a Marshall again. FBI. CIA. Quit this freelance bull and get back into paperwork and bureaucracy.”

“You really think you can?  After all of this?”

She shook her head, a barely there wobble.  “I need this, Derek.”

In the end, he caved.  They came to a compromise of sorts.  Cora was scouting for a sniper, a small legion of drones with her very own cloaking tech canvassing the area.  Meanwhile, Derek and Braeden were camped out on different sides of the drop site.

She was ready to take a shot.  He was ready to give chase. If this unknown assassin was among the caravan trading with Corinne, then Derek would be able to track them from this point as they fled from her death.

When the moment came, it went against every contingency they had planned for.

The first to exit their caravan was not Corinne, but two local men pushing a young woman with a bag over her head  They forced her to her knees.

Derek relayed this to Cora.  This wasn’t a simple arms deal.

From the other caravan came a man, face wrapped in cloth to keep the sand away.  Still, they could tell he was caucasian.

The first two men removed the bag from the young woman’s head.  She was gagged still, but there was fight in her. The white man said something and the two stared at each other for a long moment.  

Then, finally, the Desert Wolf herself stepped out.  

“No sign of a sniper,” Cora confirmed through the comms.  “Thermal scans show those are the only five people down there.”

Braeden was already set up for the shot.  The only thing stopping her was that one of the traders was in the way.  They may not trust each other, but they both had codes to stand by. They didn’t do collateral damage.  

Corinne brought a knife to the young woman’s throat.

Derek wondered if Braeden would take the shot now, to prevent the girl from getting killed.  Derek didn’t know if Braeden was quick enough to get the man in the way and her target before the young woman was dead.  

Before they had to make that call, though, Corinne’s partner moved.  His movements were so casual at first that Derek almost didn’t notice.  From near nowhere, a gun was in his grip. Then, with a speed Derek had only seen in movies, the white man knocked Corinne to the ground at the same time he cocked his gun and shot both the other men.  The young woman was running towards Corinne’s truck before the first body hit the floor. The man was turning his gun on the Desert Wolf when Braeden’s bullet pierced her skull.

He looked Braeden’s way.  

Derek didn’t know what to do.

The Void was an assassin.  But this was a rescue mission.

He only caught the tail end of what Cora was yelling at him, but it was enough to kick him into autopilot.   _Before he gets into the car._

Derek had been set up to give chase, but he was also set up to fire when ready.  The rocket launcher on the back of his truck didn’t need precision. If he got near the car it would be enough to hit his target but not the girl inside.  

There was a kick back followed by an explosion.  Derek slipped back into the driver’s seat and gunned it to reach the wreckage. The cloud of smoke began to settle as Derek raced forward.  

“He’s still up and kicking,” Braeden said through the comms.  “Do you want me to take the shot?”

“Negative.”

If the Desert Wolf was hers, he wouldn’t let Braden take this one, too.

Derek was close enough now he didn’t need binoculars to make out details.  The white man was climbing into the driver’s seat, the young woman panicked next to him.  The cloth wrapped around his face had fallen and Derek saw the man who alluded even his own dark world community.

For the second time.

Focus.  Derek would make it to their location before they could get the speed to outpace him.  He could still get his mark without hitting the girl. He just had to -

Time slowed down.  Hands still tied together, the young woman pulled a pin with her teeth and tossed the hand grenade out the window.  

Derek turned sharply.  Out of the blast zone. The explosion knocked the car forward, almost enough to tip it.  Derek slammed on the breaks.

He looked back to the other car.  That was that. His mark got away.

“Cora.”

“Already on it.”  A drone would be following that truck as far as it could.  “We’re on our own channel now. Why did you freeze?”

Braeden had her own vehicle to get back to the city.  Derek drove off alone. He didn’t want to see her now anyway.  “I know that face.”

“What?”

“The man.  The Void. Stiles.  I’ve met him before.”

There was a long beat of silence.  “Are we still going after this mark?”

Derek took in a deep breath, mind set on that cafe in Barcelona where he met a boy who was clumsy and charming and they watched on the news that someone nearby had been assassinated.  “Depends on what you can find out about someone named Michael Todd I met during the Calavera job.”

“Well now that’s something I can work with.”


	4. Berlin

**IV Berlin**

“You’re going to have to ask him for help.”

“I’m not asking him for help, Lydia,” Stiles sneered, trying valiantly to not look as she cleaned out the gash running across his bicep.  “We’re mortal enemies. I refuse.”

Lydia sighed and pressed the cotton ball unnecessarily hard where a bullet had grazed him.   “You’re not enemies, Stiles. You’re the only one who thinks that.”

Stiles threw his good arm up in the air.  “He tried to blow me up!”

Lydia gave him a Look™.  It was the one she saved for when he was being extra childish.  “If you don’t agree to ask for help, you’re cleaning your own bullet hole,” Lydia threatened.

Stiles gagged.  “What! No, that’s gross.  Blood’s gross.”

“You’re a hitman,” Lydia reminded him, tossing a roll of bandages at his head.  “And I’m not a nurse. In fact, I have a conference to get to and you were never supposed to show up at my suite.”

Lydia was a genius.  She handled the money and the dark net communication and the paper trail and the hiding of said paper trail and on top of it her cover story day job was as an astrophysicist who wrote theoretical peer-reviewed papers about the universe and math.  It wouldn’t surprise Stiles if she somehow found time to get her medical licence just for shits and giggles, but she wasn’t a civil servant, that was for sure. Unless you counted aiding in the assassination of even worse bad guys. That was kind of like giving back to the community.  Helping others.

Still, the only reason they were both in Berlin at the same time was because she’s world renowned in her field and was a keynote speaker at some big convention about stuff that even Stiles had a hard time understanding.  And the two of them met at Space Camp. Like, the fancy kind held at NASA.

“It’s not a hole,” Stiles mumbled, wrapping up his arm and holding back his gag reflex.  “It’s a graze. And it’s gross. There’s a reason I try to only kill people from a distance.”

Lydia left him to bleed alone in her suite’s bathroom.  He sighed and picked up the bandages to awkwardly wrap his arm with one hand.

“I don’t need his help,” Stiles spat.  Lydia remained silent in the other room, the only sound were her heels as she got all her things together to leave.  “It’s just a graze,” he said, softer this time, less angry although still upset. “I hit them worse.”

There was a pause in Lydia’s movements, and then the click-clack of her heels came closer.  She leaned against the open doorway. Her eyes were cold and lips pressed into a hard line. She stared at him for some time before slowly shifting her sight to where Stiles’s fingers struggled to tape the bandage down.  He knew her concerns.

He shouldn’t have been hit.

“A small consolation prize when the target is still at large and you’ve been compromised,” Lydia snipped.  “And if you fucked up bad enough to get shot on this job, you could have led them to me which is not acceptable.”

It was the closest the two of them would get to saying _I’m sorry_ or _I was worried._  A statement of fact and a barbed jab at the problem at present.  

“Why is wolf boy in Berlin anyway?  Maybe he’s someone trying to kill me.  Again!”

Lydia rolled her eyes.  “You really think I haven’t been keeping track of his movements since Bangkok?”

“You missed when he was hired to kill me,” he replied.

Lydia’s perfectly manicured fingernails drummed across her folded arm.  Their bickering was getting them nowhere. After Bangkok, Lydia had discovered that the man Stiles had met in Barcelona was actually the hitman _Lone Wolf_.  He doesn’t have any alliances. He doesn’t have repeat clients to avoid being under somebody’s thumb. He doesn’t take marks if they haven’t committed a murder.    

“I thought he was going after Malia’s mother.  And I didn’t tell you because if you knew someone was trying to take Corinne out before we got to Malia you would’ve started acting suspicious.  We’ve gone over this.”

Derek had broken his normal protocol and paired up with someone.  It seemed like he was helping her, not the other way around.

Stiles sighed.  It was pointless to rehash that argument.  “Why are you asking Wolfgang Amadeus Murder for help anyway?  Why not Kira? She has a _sword._   She has an Olympic medal in the meter dash.  She talks to me about comic books and Star Wars, and she’s never once tried to kill me.”

“She’s retired,” Lydia reminded him.  “And in California. After marrying your best friend.  You think you’d remember that. You had to kill someone at the wedding.”

Stiles shrugged and tested out the motion of his injured arm. “I had to kill someone at a lot of weddings.”  It stung a little bit when he flexed, but his range of mobility was good enough.

“Derek’s in Berlin going after Dr. Valack.”

Stiles dropped his arm and sat up straighter.  “Lydia.”

She sighed.  “Yeah, I know.”

“You can’t keep this shit from me.”

She nodded, but couldn’t look at him anymore.  Dr. Valack was a man Lydia had worked with a number of times in the scientific community.  Well, _with_ was a strong word.  They inhabited the same space while working on the same project.  Dr. Valack was also going to be speaking at this conference.

Dr. Valack was also someone who valiantly tried to discredit Lydia at every turn.  He went so far as to drug her, try to make her think she was crazy, tried to get her committed.  There was never anything to prove it was him, and she knew enough about drugs to know what was going on and stop it, but Lydia’s genius reputation was stained with instability.  

Stiles had offered to kill him many times, but Lydia never wanted to blur the lines between guns for hire and vigilantes seeking revenge.

“Fine.”  Stiles didn’t like this, but he’d play the game.  “How are we playing this?”

* * *

Derek glared at his sister.  She had been keeping information from him.  “You’ve been in contact with someone else’s tech for _how long_.”

It wasn’t a question.  It was a statement of absolute disbelief.  

Cora huffed and rolled her eyes like this wasn’t a security risk.  Derek came back to their temporary base camp only to discover that Cora had invited people over.  

“I’ve been a fan of _Ariel’s_Voice_ since I got into hacking.  She’s a fucking legend. I recognized her style when looking into that mystery boy of yours and it turns out she’d already been tracking us for some time.”  Cora shrugged.

They never learned more about Stiles, the Void, the college student claiming to be Michael Todd.  However, only a few weeks after the incident in Baghdad, Derek’s benefactor Matt Daehler was found dead.  The paralytic agent that trademarked Daehler’s own hitman was used to do the job, and it only left them with more questions than answers, but Derek decided it wasn’t his place to go digging.

Cora, on the flipside, became pen pals with Stiles’s tech.  

“Why should we help them?”

Cora bit her bottom lip and flared her nostrils, an unattractive gesture that gave away her conflicting emotions.  It was a tick she did when she as unsure or very sure but didn’t like the answer or she had something to tell him that she didn’t know how he was going to react to.

“Stiles is the one who took out Uncle Peter.”

Cora and Derek weren’t the only ones to survive the fire that killed their family.  Their older sister Laura had, too. And Uncle Peter. Once Peter woke from his coma, he turned into the exact type of person Cora and Derek had set out to take down  But nothing personal. That was their rule. They debated a long time about actually hiring it out, or if that was just as bad. In the end, Peter died without their involvement.  

“I figured we owed him a thank you,” Cora finished.

Derek took a moment to digest everything she was saying.  “Fine,” he relented. “How are we playing this?”

* * *

Stiles had an attendee pass for the conference with a VIP sticker that allowed him to take photographs.  His cover story was very often reliant on hiding gun parts inside of camera parts and calling himself a freelance photojournalist.  Technically, he guessed, he was. His dad never understood why he used an alias when building his photography portfolio. Stiles always told him it was so that people didn’t bug him when he came home to take their picture or for those fake friends from high school to beg to tag along on his next overseas travel.

Everyone else back home thought he was a plane steward, which explained why he was constantly leaving town for weeks at a time.

Stiles used his VIP pass to take a picture of Lydia after her speech.  A show of “this is us meeting for the first time” and “let’s go grab a coffee and I’ll give you a few behind the scene photos” and “leaving together, this is totally normal, he wasn’t just back at her suite bleeding from a gun wound” and “we have absolutely nothing to do with the assassination that is happening right now on the second floor.”

They made it to the location _Coral_Moon_ gave them at the exact time she listed.

Lydia had insisted on coming along.  “If this is a mistake, we’re making it together,” she had said.

Stiles looked over the closed vet clinic with a frown.  “Really?”

Lydia nodded.  “It makes sense to use a place that’s in transition of hands.  Police tend to look at hotels and cafes and bars. Maybe I should shack you up in an old BlockBuster next time.”

Stiles rolled his eyes.  “Come on.”

* * *

Three hours of breathing the same air and Derek was going to kill Stiles himself.  He kept messing with their things, making innuendos, fucking winking. There was still that charming, clever, quick witted dumbass who Derek met at a cafe in Barcelona, but the light behind his eyes was a little bit more fake and the comments he was making were a little bit more real.  Stiles was an enigma and Derek still couldn’t believe that he was such a famed professional in their field.

It was infuriating.   

“So, your name’s really Derek?” Stiles asked at one point.

Derek shrugged.  He wasn’t giving this guy anything if he could help it.  Stiles leaned across the metal medical table and smirked.  Lydia and Cora were in the other room working on some computer stuff and had kicked them out.  It was growing dangerous. Derek might actually snap his neck.

“You just, what, meet cute boys at cafes and give up vital information?”  Stiles winked. “If we met across the street would you tell me why you tried to blow me up?”

Derek crossed his arms and glared.  Stiles rapped his fingers against the table.  

“Silent treatment, huh.”  Stiles’s mouth twitched up, drawing attention to the cupid bow and full bottom lip that had caught Derek’s attention years ago while biding time in Spain.  His smug smirk dropped, the forced glee behind his eye fading into something dull, something that told of his years doing this type of work. “Thanks, by the way.  For killing Valack.”

Derek hadn’t realized the job he just finished was something to be thanked for.  “Why?”

Stiles smirk grew back instantly and Derek rolled his eyes.  He shouldn’t have responded. Stiles lost his mirth quirk enough.  “There’s some history between him and Lydia. Not my story to tell, but I’ve been wanting to get rid of him for a long time.”

Derek nodded.  “Thanks for Peter Hale, then.”

Stiles frowned.  “Peter?” They way Stiles looked at him made Derek realize he already said too much.  “Derek and Cora. You’re Derek Hale.” There were a thousand reaching thoughts behind Stiles’s eye.  Derek didn’t doubt Stiles knew Derek’s history well. He didn’t bring it up, though. Only smirked again and winked.  “You really can’t keep your mouth shut around me, huh.”

Before Derek could open his dumb mouth _again,_ Cora and Lydia marched through the door with a plan.  “Listen up, meatheads,” Cora sneered, as if she weren’t just as strong and aggressive as Derek.  Lydia settled in next to him with barely contained excitement as she looked between himself and Stiles.  “This is how we’re going to take down the only Nazi left in Germany.”

Surprisingly, once on the field, their plan went down without a hitch.  But once it was done, Stiles and Lydia vanished.

“Oh, come on, Der, we knew that going in,” Cora laughed at him.  “Besides, Lydia’s a public figure, she’s easy enough to track. Stiles is probably never too far away.”

Derek wasn’t sure what exactly his sister was trying to insinuate.  It didn’t matter. Stiles was gone, back to being a void, _the Void_.  And Derek would keep at it alone.


	5. Budapest

**V Budapest**

The train rattled harshly as it hurtled towards the station.  Stiles didn’t even know how these guys got this old hunk of rust onto the tracks, but by shit lord above was Stiles going to stop it.  Three train cars in and Stiles had managed to kill four smugglers and diffuse a bomb. He’d also managed to take a couple of slugs to the gut.  

He wasn’t quite sure how he got himself wrapped up in this mess, or even the motive of the jerkoffs who wanted to blow up the city.  It felt like a damned _Mission Impossible_ movie.  But here he was, bleeding and angry.  

There was an explosion further down the train, somewhere near the front.  They were set to go off at the city, and Stiles wasn’t sure what would have caused one to detonate now.  Whatever part of the train was… pulling the train must have detached from the rest of the freights. They were starting to slow down.  Stiles pushed open a door and jumped the small gap between the two carts. Guns were going off somewhere near the front, near the explosion. Stiles didn’t have time for another threat.

With a deep breath and a count of three Stiles barged into the next compartment and took out the two guards before they knew which way they were being attacked from.  Guess the second set of guns were good for something.

Stiles checked the compartment for another explosive rig.  Even if this train wasn’t making it to the heart of Budapest, Stiles didn’t want to be stuck on board when it went blam. When the door opened from the other side, Stiles didn’t know if it was one of the men Stiles was sent to stop, or the other gunman who joined the fray.  He spun, gun ready, and froze. His arm trembled, the rush of his blood loss getting to him.

“Jesus Christ.   _Stiles_.”

Stiles didn’t drop his arm.

“I’m not going to fucking shoot you,” Derek said, holstering his own gun.  “You look like you’re bleeding out.”

“You don’t look much better,” Stiles said, clicking the safety back on and letting his arm fall.  Half of Derek’s shirt was singed off and he was sporting at least a second degree burn across his left side.  

“Always double check your blast radius,” Derek said, pulling a suture kit out of his tactical belt.  “Now shut up and let me stop the bleeding.”

“Do we have time for that?” Stiles asked.  This cart was empty but he hadn’t check the outside.

“You clear the back?” Derek asked, a hand on Stiles’s elbow to guide him to the floor.  Stiles nodded as he swayed, knees not holding up. He couldn’t feel the pain just yet, not fully.  Adrenaline was still numbing him from reality. “I cleared the front. There’s an evac on the way once the train rolls to a stop. There’s nothing to do but clean up and wait until then.”

Everything rushed at him the moment his body relaxed.  The pain. The faintness he had been fighting. Derek.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles winced.  Derek had lifted his shirt and plunged something not unlike tweezers into a bullet wound.  It was a testament to how out of it Stiles was that he wasn’t mock puking. Or real puking.

“Same as you, I’m guessing.”

This wasn’t a job.  Not really. No one hired Stiles to stop this train, he just heard about it and couldn’t sit by when he was in the area.  

Derek’s stubbled was even thicker than the last time Stiles saw him.  A real beard now. He looked good, even with some of his skin missing and charred.  

“Playing the hero, just for the day?” Stiles smiled, the hazy grin on his face only lasting so long.  He screamed out when Derek removed the first bullet. Two to go.

“I guess.”

Stiles smirked best he could around gritted teeth.  “I’m still curious,” Stiles said, sight going in and out of focus on the pale forest inside Derek’s eyes.  “Why do this?”

“Stop a bombed train or help stitch you up?” Derek asked.

“Stay dead after Argent blew your family up and become a hitman?  You were practically a baby. Why’d you become this?”

Derek looked up, their eyes catching for a brief moment, then we went back to the task at hand.  “Cora and I decided to let people assume we were dead so that we weren’t going to be attacked again.  Laura knows. She tried to convince us into witness protection, at the very least. But Cora’s a genius.  She knew how to hide our tracks even at fifteen better than all of the FBI could.”

“But why murder people?” Stiles asked again after Derek dug out the second bullet.

“I don’t know, Stiles.  Why do you?”

Stiles almost laughed at that, a little delirious from the blood loss.  “My mom,” Stiles cried, real tears falling down his face. Shit. He was so far gone right now.  “She tried to kill me.”

Derek froze, just a half second of time, before digging more for the last bullet.  Stiles groaned against the pain but it wasn’t enough to shut him up.

“Not.  Not her fault.  Frontotemporal dementia,” Stiles slurred.  “Thought I was killing her, so I guess it was only fair.”  He shrugged. That was a bad choice. Dear fuck, everything hurt.  “But uh, I think that shaped my formative years.” Stiles grinned a sloppy grin at Derek and maybe even managed to wink.  He wasn’t sure.

“That’s not enough of a reason for this,” Derek said.

“Neither is yours.”

Derek touched along the bullet holes in Stiles’s stomach clinically, but gentle.  “I’m going to have to cauterize these. It’ll hurt.”

“Fuck it dude,” Stiles said.  “I’ll probably pass out soon.”  He closed his eyes and waited for the fire.

Derek’s voice was soft when he spoke.  Intimate in a way. Close and quiet as he methodically readied things to cauterize three bullet holes.  

“I grew up watching my mother fight within the legal system at the highest summits of global politics to make change, to do something right, to make people accountable.  None of it did much of anything, though. The people I take out, though? They’re all people who deserve it. They’re all people who I can make change in the world by eliminating.”

“People like me?” Stiles blinked his eyes open a little.  “I still don’t forgive you for shooting a rocket at me.”

Derek didn’t say anything in response and Stiles closed his eyes again.  He was tired, and he would pass out once Derek started burning him. Stiles had to say this quick.

“Someone tried to kill my dad.  I found out. They decided killing me would be just as good instead.  I killed him. It was self defense, but I realized the same thing you did.  My dad does a lot of good work, laying down the law. But some people just need to be gone and the law can’t touch them.”  Stiles swallowed a lump in his throat. “I hadn’t actually killed my mom, but it felt like I had. Then I was sixteen with two people’s blood on my hands and the knowledge that I would fail all personality tests to make it as a cop.”

“You don’t need to explain,” Derek said.  “Just shut up. This is going to hurt.”

When Stiles woke up he was in a hospital bed in Budapest with a very stern Lydia standing at the foot of his bed.  “You’re such a fucking idiot,” she told him. Then she cried. Then she held him. Then she made him promise to never do anything like that again.  “I’m not letting you take a job as anything other than a sniper. You hate blood? Well good, so do I. You’re not allowed to do this again.”

Stiles promised.  He didn’t ask about Derek.  Lydia didn’t say. Derek was _The Lone Wolf_.  He wasn’t like Kira or hell, even Jackson.  Derek wasn’t the type of hitman you actually got to know.  Their paths may cross from time to time, but they would never converge.  Stiles couldn’t let himself think that way. He had a job to do.


	6. Beacon Hills

**~~VI~~ (+I) Beacon Hills**

The spit and clank of a rusty old car engine approached with the grinding of large tires against the unpaved driveway.  Derek sighed. This had been an old family property, and Derek had hoped it was secluded enough being the only house on this side of the lake.  Somehow, without fail, at least one dumbass local a week came out this way thinking they could squat as if it were a free AirBNB. The Sheriff promised him it would die down by the end of summer, and would be less likely to happen next year because people would know someone was living out there again.

Derek gets out of his deck chair and heads round front to tell off whatever college student just rolled up.  “Hey!” he shouted, spotting the blue Jeep that was rolling to a stop. “This is private property.”

The door opened and a lanky man in plaid and ripped jeans stumbled out with so little grace that Derek wouldn’t be surprised if he twisted an ankle.  But then the man looked up and grinned and Derek almost dropped his beer.

“Are you stalking me now?  How did you even find me here?”

Stiles laughed, the light in his eyes more genuine that Derek had ever seen them.  He leaned against the Jeep, a monstrosity that looked like it was on its last legs ten years ago.  “Yeah, funny story,” Stiles said, rubbing at his nose in a smug sort of satisfaction. “You’ve got me believing in destiny.”

Derek rolled his eyes, anger boiling up in his chest.  He was supposed to be getting away from that life. He wanted to be done with it, and here Stiles was just waltzing in, probably demanding his help again.  Well, Cora wasn’t here to convince him this time. He wasn’t going to do anything.

“Stiles-” Derek started, ready to lay into him.

“Believe it or not,” Stiles interjected, “I didn’t track you down.”

Derek furrowed his brow.  He’d wait for Stiles to explain himself.

Stiles scratched at his cheek.  “I grew up here, man.”

“What.”

“Beacon Hills.  My hometown. I didn’t track you down.  But, uh, my dad told me about this new Deputy of his and he sent me a photo because, let’s be honest, he knows you’re my type.  You were incentive, uh, to bring me home. Guess it worked.”

“Your dad.”

Stiles nodded.

“Is Sheriff Stilinski.”

Stiles nodded again.

“Stiles.  Stilinski.”

Stiles nodded a third time.

“Is your first name really Michael?” Derek asked, thinking back to their first ever meeting, when Derek foolishly gave away his real name to a stranger.  Stiles had been right. Fooled by a pretty face.

“Kind of.”  Stiles shrugged.  “It’s the Polish version of Michael.”

Derek bobbed his head, not quite a nod, not quite anything.  This was a lot of coincidence to take in. “I lived here until I was five.  We moved because of my mom’s work in the UN.”

Stiles looked him over.  “You going to invite me in?  Or…”

Derek sighed and took a drag from his beer.  He turned and headed back around the house. Stiles would follow, Derek didn’t doubt that.  Derek sat back down in his deck chair that overlooked the lake and pulled another beer out of his cooler.

He looked up at Stiles and popped the cap off before handing it over.  

“You’re out of it for good?” Stiles asked, taking the beer and sitting in the chair next to him.  

“Can’t be a world assassin when you’re working as a small town cop.”

“Deputy,” Stiles corrected.  

Derek took a sip of his beer.  “Laura’s having a kid,” he said.  “And I can’t be Derek Hale anymore.  Derek Hale is dead. But,” he shrugged.  “Cora’s my sister but I want a chance to be with family again, if that makes sense.”

“Yeah, I guess I can get that,” Stiles said.  “Deputy Tate. You know, that’s the name of-”

“Malia.  The girl you saved in Baghdad.  Yeah. She’s Peter’s daughter. Adopted by the Tates.  Laura got me in contact with her. I can’t be a Hale, but I can be family.”

Stiles let out a low whistle.  “Remember what I said about destiny?  Too much to be coincidence.”

Derek looked at him.  Was it really fate that kept their paths crossing?  “One thing I never got. How’d you take out Daehler after that?”

Stiles quirked an eyebrow and tipped his beer back.  “Who says that was me?”

Derek scoffed.  “He was killed immediately after a failed hit on your life.”

“Nah, that was Jackson.  Matt’s old gun. Killed by his own signature hitman.  Poetic.”

“Jackson?” Derek asked.  He’d never heard the name.  “I was told you _killed_ Daehler’s old hitman.”

Stiles shook his head.  “Nah, Jackson left because he got married.  To Lydia. I was blamed for introducing them.  Can’t blame Matt. I would have gone back in time and stopped them from meeting if I could.  Fucking hate Jackson.”

Derek laughed.  Stiles sat up straight and faced him head on, a growing joy on his face.

“Don’t think I ever heard you laugh,” Stiles smiled.  “It’s a good look on you.”

“You really not working now?” Derek asked.  “No emergency. No job too big for one man?”

Stiles settled back into his chair and looked back over the lake.  It was calm. The setting sun sparkled against the water in a way that made even the mosquitos seem like a gift to live here.  

“When I was bleeding out on that train, did I tell you about my mom?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles nodded.  Silence stretched between them.  Derek was afraid to break it. For all of Stiles’s words, Derek could tell something real was going to come out next.  Not a smoke screen.

“I don’t want to be a killer,” Stiles said.  “When I was sixteen, I was so broken and full of rage that my only solution was to keeping fighting, keep finding things to fight.”  He took a long pull from his beer. “I went back to only doing sniper jobs after I woke up in a hospital last year. But it’s not letting my rage out anymore.  It’s only making me sink into something I don’t want to be. I’m afraid if I don’t get out now, I’ll turn into something dark. I’ll turn into Peter or Kate or Matt.  And I don’t want to be that.”

“I think, for me, ever since I killed Kate I lost the rage that sent me on this path.”

Stiles hummed.  “Yeah, that was brutal.”  Off of Derek’s look, Stiles smiled and continued.  “I was supposed to take her out. Saw the whole thing through my lens.”  Stiles looked him over. “There’s some grey in your beard.”

Derek laughed again.  “Yeah. I’m an old man.”

“Not that old,” Stiles said.  The buzz of dragonflies and the gentle lap of the lake against the bank swelled as they appreciated the silence.  It wasn’t something that they got a lot of in their line of work. Peace with their quiet. “Would you leave?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I came back to Beacon Hills.  Would you leave?”

Derek thought about it.  He came here because it was his childhood home, because Laura was only a few hours north and Malia was only a few hours south.  Cora had stationed herself in Brazil. She still needed time, needed to grow up a bit more before finding what makes her want to settle.  He couldn't blame her for that.

He looked over to Stiles.  Derek liked Beacon Hills. He felt welcomed at the Sheriff’s station.  He felt a calm sitting in his backyard, watching the lake, sipping on beer, more than anywhere else in the world Derek had ever been.  

“Is me being here keeping you from coming home?” Derek asked instead of answering.

Stiles lazily turned his head to face him.  The glint in his eye was warm and inviting, like the sunset against the lake.  “I figured I’d never see you again that time we met in Barcelona, but dear lord did I want to.”

“What does that mean?” Derek asked.

“Destiny, Derek.  Who else could say the world kept bringing them together like us?”

All the missions Derek had been on, all the times he felt adrenaline spike through his heart, fear freeze in his veins, and anger fill his lungs, Derek had never felt quite as unsure and left footed as he did in that moment.  His pulse was like firecrackers. His breath was restless ghosts and the twist in his gut was for once in his life neither carnal desire nor murderous rage.

It was a want he had never experienced before.  

He thought back to Barcelona and wondered how differently their lives could have been if he followed Stiles to his hotel room instead of saying goodbye and doing his job.  They could have discovered each other sooner. Had a whirlwind, like he had with Braeden. Maybe they would have worked with each other more. Maybe Stiles would have shot him in the head when he saw Derek kill Kate.  Maybe following their first crash of destiny would have stopped this moment now from happening.

This moment where Derek wanted.  He wanted something real. A connection he couldn’t make with anyone else because he’d be hiding half his life.  He wanted peace. He wanted a home and a family.

Stiles had almost died in his arms a year ago.  When they brought him to the hospital, Derek expected it would be the last time they ever saw each other.  Derek already decided to get out of the business. They’d have no reason for another chance encounter. Their lives shouldn’t have lined up again.

But they did.

Derek traced the pattern of moles on Stiles’s face, the perfect bow of his upper lip, the warm and inviting whiskey eyes that drank him in ever so slowly.  And maybe Derek believed in destiny, too.

“Destiny’s not much to go off of,” Derek said.  “Can’t know if our lives would work out well together just because the world keeps throwing us at each other.”

“Reason enough to try, though.  Don’t you think?”

Derek smiled.  He wanted. He wanted and he didn’t have to worry about rules or cover stories or jeopardizing the mission.  There was no mission. Or, the mission was whatever he wanted it to be. And Derek wanted this.

He almost said _fuck it_ all those years ago when he’d first met the intriguing man who now sat next to him.  Derek never understood how it was Stiles who was nicknamed the _void._ Stiles was anything but.  He was vibrant and loud and took up space.  He was someone so full of life Derek almost said _fuck it_ and compromised his mission just to kiss him into oblivion.

Derek said _fuck it_ now.

“You’re going to be the absolute death of me,” Derek said, standing up.

Stiles tracked him as Derek headed inside, once again assuming that Stiles would follow.  Derek stripped off his shirt on the way to his bedroom.

“You have a tattoo,” Stiles said, not two feet behind him.

Derek looked over his shoulder.  “Yeah.”

“What else don’t I know about you?” Stiles asked, casually shucking the plaid that hid his frame so well.

“Depends.  How much did Lydia dig up on me?”

“Not nearly enough.  You’ve got time?”

Derek looped his fingers around Stiles’s belt loop.  “I don’t think I’m going anywhere anytime soon.”

Stiles smirked.  One hand rested over Derek’s heart while the other traced along a knife wound at Derek’s side.  “Good.” Stiles said. “Because I want to know everything.”

Derek dipped his head, so close to claiming those lips he had been thinking about for so long.  “First thing you should know about me,” Derek whispered, their breath mingling together, “is-"

They were the last real words either of them spoke that night, but Derek thought Stiles got the message.

"We kept crossing paths," Stiles said, days or weeks later.  It was easy to lose track of time with him.  "I can't say how long it'll last, but it looks like we're on the same path now."

"Maybe we were on the same path all along."

Stiles called him cheesy for that and threw a french fry at his head.  But Stiles was smiling.  And Derek was smiling.  And maybe they'd both be able to make a home among the casual and mundane, have a life that's real and without secrets, if only because they had each other. 

**Author's Note:**

> So. I originally started this story as one long mission that they got tangled together in and slowly got to know each other, but I soon realized that I was falling into my trap of it being a story much longer than I had anticipated writing which I didn't have the time or energy for. Literally the day before the story was due I scrapped almost all of it and started again as a 5+1. It was a lot of fun, it's a story structure I hadn't done before, and I'm really happy with how it came out. Thanks a million to my artist who was so patient with me and to the fact I was able to pretty much snag a tail end posting date and spend the extra time writing (oooopppps)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! There were so many scenes and head canons I wasn't able to write in with the rework of the fic and I'm sorry to see them go, but such is the way of writing I guess.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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